


Occasional flashes of competence

by Tereshkova (EarthboundCosmonaut)



Series: Occasional flashes of competence [1]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Gen, Malcolm feels feelings, Nicola doesn't fuck up, Yoga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 08:15:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12955092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarthboundCosmonaut/pseuds/Tereshkova
Summary: "It turns out that Nicola’s very familiar with her key policy points. What's more she manages to articulate them fairly coherently at the press briefing that kicks off her visit.“Somebody’s taken their valium this morning,” comments Ollie with a smug grin as Nicola is led off for a meet and greet with the centre staff and a carefully vetted group of the less alarming regulars from the yoga class she’ll be joining. Malcolm contemplates how satisfying it would feel to punch his poofy Little Lord Fauntleroy face."In which Nicola Murray gets things right for almost an entire day and Malcolm Tucker feels uncomfortably moved by the experience. Inspired by a comment from the series in which Malcolm refers to Nicola's yoga-related bendiness. Rated T for canon-typical language.





	Occasional flashes of competence

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this fic came to me while I was walking to the gym one evening. For the record I would like to clarify that I don't do yoga and I don't wear colourful workout clothes. Ever.

Malcolm can’t remember the last time he was in a leisure centre. He certainly hasn’t been in one since he moved down south. The strain that cleaning up the excrement that his party smears over itself and everything it touches on a daily basis generates is as much as his body can tolerate. And as his diet consists mostly of caffeine, Monster Munch and satsumas, controlling his weight has never been an issue.

He’s come today because, as he informed Nicola when she objected to his presence, allowing her to not only discuss one of her – admittedly more sensible – policies in front of the press, but to do so at an event where she would also be required to interact with the general public _and_ participate in a yoga class, is a recipe for disaster. He’d already headed off one disaster by vetting her choice of yoga gear before they left DoSAC.

“Yer not fuckin' wearing that,” he’d told her as she’d emerged from the papered-up office she uses as a dressing room wearing neon pink leggings and a lime green and turquoise top.

“What’s wrong with it?” she’d demanded.

“Well to start with it looks like something a fuckin' Care Bear sicked up. And more importantly, yer showing more tit than a page three girl.” This was an exaggeration. Nicola was actually showing a modest hint of cleavage, but Malcolm knew that the hacks would be waiting gleefully for her to strike a yoga pose that caused her top to ride down so they could run captions about the minister having a lot to get off her chest, or keeping abreast of public health policy.

“It’s what I always wear to yoga,” Nicola said, as though this somehow validated her horrific taste in clothing.

“If ye want to look like a fuckin' eighties porn star in your own time that’s your business, but you’re no' doing it in front of the nation’s media when you’re promoting the only fuckin' sensible policy idea you’ve had since taking office.”

Healthy Choices is a half decent policy. It has the twin advantages of making the government seem concerned about the wellbeing of voters and being cheap to implement. And if she can manage not to fuck it up, Nicola promoting the policy by attending a yoga class in one of the more deprived areas of her constituency is a good idea. Experience, however, has taught Malcolm that the chances of Nicola Murray getting through any public appearance without fucking up are about as good as Borat being appointed the next president of Kazakhstan. Which is why he forces his way into the ministerial car despite the nuclear meltdown of a glare that she throws his way.

“You can wipe that fuckin' expression off your face right now, Glummy Mummy,” he warns. “Yer supposed to be convincing people that exercise is fun, not a fuckin' death sentence.”

He has Elvis stop at Nicola’s house, where he insists on coming inside and vetting her change of yoga outfit. Nicola’s house is exactly as he would have guessed: a large Victorian terrace with Farrow & Ball paint and photos of her mini-Boden children participating in an array of twatty middle class activities like sailing and horseriding. About as far away as it's possible to get from the lifestyles enjoyed by the thirty two percent of her constituents living on benefits. And she wondered why people thought she was smug.

The youngest boy emerges from one of the downstairs rooms while Nicola is upstairs. He has solemn green eyes that are an uncanny replica of Nicola’s and a mop of blonde hair that he must have inherited from his rugby twat father.  “Who are you?” asks Murray junior around the thumb jammed in his mouth.

“I’m yer Mum’s babysitter,” Malcolm tells him, glancing up from his Blackberry for a moment.

“Mummy doesn’t need a babysitter, she’s a grown up.”

“Some grown ups can’t look after themselves very well. They need someone to follow them around and make sure they don't dribble down their own clothes.”

Nicola frowns at Malcolm as she comes down the stairs in a yellow and grey ensemble that’s loud enough to give someone a stroke. “Josh,” she says in a tender voice that he's never heard her use at work. She smooths her son's hair, one hand lingering for a moment on the boy’s forehead. “You’ve still got a temperature. Go and get back in bed before you catch a cold.”

A young woman who is presumably the nanny that Malcolm has bollocked Nicola several times for employing appears and leads Little Murray back to the living room with an apologetic grimace. Once the door has closed behind them Nicola rounds on Malcolm, jabbing her finger practically in his face. “Don’t you ever fucking undermine me in front of my kids,” she hisses.

Malcolm leans towards her, stepping right into her personal space, challenging her to get any closer. “Then don’t fuckin' undermine yerself by dressing like a clown. Go and find something that won’t make your constituents’ eyes bleed.”

After sending Nicola back upstairs to change twice, he finally approves a pair of navy blue leggings and a dark green T-shirt with a shallow v neck.  “Jesus Christ,” Malcolm mutters as they get back in the car. “Wee Josh could dress himself better in the fuckin' dark.” He knows he shouldn’t be needling her before a public appearance – she’s hardly calm at the best of times – but her inability to cope with daily tasks is so fucking infuriating that he can’t help himself.

For once she doesn’t rise to the bait. She’s flipping through the policy packs Terri will be handing out to the journalists. “If you’re going to insist on coming to this thing can you do something useful like run me through my policy points, please?”

***

It turns out that Nicola’s very familiar with her key policy points. What's more she manages to articulate them fairly coherently at the press briefing that kicks off her visit.

“Somebody’s taken their valium this morning,” comments Ollie with a smug grin as Nicola is led off for a meet and greet with the centre staff and a carefully vetted group of the less alarming regulars from the yoga class she’ll be joining. Malcolm contemplates how satisfying it would feel to punch his poofy Little Lord Fauntleroy face.

“Don’t fuckin' curse it. She hasn’t been let loose on the public yet.”

Malcolm hovers on the edge of the meet and greet.  He’s braced himself for stuttering and inappropriate jokes, but Nicola is warm and chatty in a disarmingly approachable way. No one could accuse her of being polished, but she smiles, makes good eye contact and seems genuinely interested in finding out about the steps the leisure centre has taken to make their facilities more accessible to people on low incomes. Malcolm is stunned to discover that she's quite a good constituency MP. She’s got that ability, unaccountably rare among politicians, to talk to normal people as though she gives a shit about them.

She catches his eye as she is ushered towards the room where the class is being held, and casts him a look that says something along the lines of “ _Still think I’m going to fuck this up_?”

Malcolm inclines his head slightly in acknowledgement that it’s gone okay so far but that there’s still plenty of time. The next hour will be littered with opportunities for slapstick at Nicola’s expense.

While the class members roll out mats and listen to a short briefing by the yoga instructor, Malcolm strategically positions himself next to the worst offenders in the hack pack so that he can accidentally knock over a camera or grab a scrotum if things start getting out of hand.

Given her inability to tell left from right Malcolm expects her to wobble her way through the class. For the second time in one day Nicola astounds him. She’s shit hot at yoga. Not in the showy manner of those willowy twats who wear harem pants and talk about their chakras, just quietly competent – two words he’d never have expected to utter in the same paragraph as Nicola Murray, let alone the same sentence. She's also, he's disgusted at himself for noticing, got rather shapely arse when it’s not drowned in dowdy Hobbs suits.

He glances at the hack pack to see whether any of them have noticed him ogling the minister’s behind but they are all too bored to have been paying attention. A couple of them are tapping away at their Blackberries, drafting their 350 words for their editor before the event's even finished. The photographer from the Daily Mail, a paper which has never passed up an opportunity to humiliate Nicola, is rolling himself a cigarette. They’ve judged that the chances of this being anything other than a run of the mill policy event are minimal and are mentally looking forward to their next appointment, or getting home for a wank, or whatever the fuck hacks look forward too.  Malcolm allows himself to relax infinitesimally. They might just be going to get through this day without a disaster.

The class draws to a close and a couple of the more conscientious journalists move closer to watch Nicola chatting with some of the other students. The woman from the Telegraph women's supplement asks a few insipid questions about how often Nicola herself does yoga and why she thinks the Healthy Choices programme is so important. Malcolm dispatches Ollie to make sure that Nicola doesn’t stray off script and takes the opportunity to take Max Greyson from the Sun aside and make some pointed suggestions about what might happen to them if he tries to use any photos that may have come into his possession of a junior Treasury minister leaving a night club with a rent boy.

By the time he’s finished the room has all but cleared. Terri is looking pointedly at her watch. It’s 5.12 and she has already made several barbed comments about how far away this part of town is from her house. Ollie is leaning against the wall, absorbed by something on his phone. Nicola is having a deep and meaningful conversation with one of the council estate yogis who – God give him strength – appears to be crying.

“You two, piss off,” he tells Ollie and Terri. “I’ll take things from here.” Terri nods at him gratefully as she gathers up her handbag and bustles out. Ollie shuffles towards the door without even raising his eyes from his phone. Malcolm places a foot in his path and derives a measure of satisfaction from the young man’s surprised yelp as he stumbles into the wall.

“You want to be careful there Ollie mate, you might hurt yourself if you don’t watch where yer going.”

Ollie casts him a resentful look but doesn’t have the balls to do anything other than scuttle off home. Malcolm wanders over to see what’s taking Nicola so long.

She has her arm around the shoulder of a fat woman in her fifties who is crying so hard that snot is running down the lower half of her face. To her credit, if Nicola feels any disgust at being so close to a stream of mucus she doesn't show it.

“There’s obviously been a problem with your application, Jean. It can be a nightmare trying to sort these things out, but if you come and see me at my office on Thursday we can go through it together. You’d be surprised how quickly things get done when a cabinet minister gets involved.”

Jean lets out another moaning sob. “I’m so embarrassed. I’ve never missed the rent in my life.”

Nicola rubs her back and mutters placatory comments. Malcolm sidles up to the lone journalist who remains – an eager looking young cub from the Guardian. “Born for this, isn’t she?”

“What’s that?” asks the reporter, looking alarmed to be the subject of the notorious eviscerator of Number 10’s undivided attention.

“Dealing with constituents. Did you know she worked for a housing charity before she stood for Parliament? Now that’s a proper job. None of yer mamby pamby management consultancy, just rolling up her sleeves and getting stuck in.”

“Yes, err…she’s certainly been doing a good job of helping this lady with her housing benefit.”

Malcolm lets out a theatrical sigh. “It’s a shame that more people don’t see this side of her.”

“What do you mean?” asks the cub, rising for the bait so easily that Malcolm has to bite back a smile.

“The press love to mock her. _She’s smug, she’s sullen, she’s unpolished_. It’s bullshit! What she is is a fucking easy target, because she’s not the usual insincere, media trained parasite. All right, so she's not the most polished member of Cabinet but she’s a good constituency MP and she’s got some very forward thinking ideas about social policy. The fuckin' cunts just love to pick holes in her because she’s a normal woman who’s about as likely to get caught up in a scandal as Mary Berry is to be a contestant on Celebrity Love Island.”

The reporter flinches at the violent intonation Malcolm uses punctuate ‘fucking cunts’ and Malcolm places a placatory hand on his shoulder. “I apologise if I offended you. It’s just so frustrating. For once here’s a politician genuinely trying to do a good job and no one takes her seriously. I wish someone would have the balls to break away from the herd and do a piece on the _real_ Nicola Murray.”

Malcom can practically see the light bulb going off in the journalist’s head. "Yeah, that's not a bad idea. But – if someone were to try and put together a piece like that - what kind of thing could they use to show the real Mrs Murray?”

Malcolm places an arm around the journalist’s shoulder and gestures to Nicola, who is now writing something on a crumpled receipt from crying woman’s handbag. “Well this is a  case in point, isn't it? Constituent approaches the minister on a visit, clearly very upset about some housing cock up. The minister takes the time to listen to her, comfort her while she fuckin’ cries her eyes out, and then arranges to meet her in her constituency office so that she can personally contact the Council and sort it out. That’s the real Nicola Murray.”

Clark Kent Jr looks like he's about to wet himself with excitement. “Do you…do you think Mrs Murray would be willing to give me an interview on Thursday? After the meeting?”

Malcolm shrugs. “Well, ye’d have to speak to the Director of Communications about that.”

The journalist glances sideways at Malcolm in confusion. “I thought you were the Director of Communications?”

Malcolm grins at him. “Give the man a gold star. It’s yer lucky day pal. Give me yer card and the Minister’s office will be in touch to fix up a time.”

The Guardian pup leaves looking as though he’s just received the best fucking blow job of his life. Job done, Malcolm checks his emails while Nicola wraps up her conversation.

“Have Ollie and Terri gone?” she asks when she's finally finished, pulling on a cardigan.

“Aye, I let them go.  Ollie’s prostitute could only wait for another thirty minutes and the poor guy hasn’t been laid since Freshers Week.”  He looks up in time to catch Nicola rolling her eyes. “That was a fuckin' long fuckin' _snotty_ conversation you were having.”

“Poor Jean’s housing benefit application’s been incorrectly processed. She’s about to be evicted and she can’t get through to an assessor to have it reviewed.”

“It’s a good thing her local MP knows her way around the housing system, then.”

Nicola stares at him.

“What!?” he demands.

“I’m trying to work out if you’re being serious.”

“Of course I’m being fuckin' serious. Why would you not think I’m being serious? Do I seem like a man who jokes to you?”

“I’m not just used to having a conversation with you in which you don’t insult some combination of my competence, my intelligence, or my appearance.”

He waves her away dismissively. “I only insult people when they deserve it.”

She’s mildly incredulous now. “Do you mean to say I’ve actually done something right for once?”

Malcolm shrugs. “Don’t be so down on yourself Nicola. Even you can’t fuck up all the time. You came across like an actual human being today. It was good.”

In fact, she looks like a completely different person. Her face is a little flushed from her exercise class and some of her hair has escaped her ponytail and is curling around her face in a very fetching way. Without her usual tense frown she is, he realises, quite pretty. And under her fitted T shirt her breasts are very shapely for a woman who's had four children.

Oblivious to the train of thought that Malcolm is revolted that he has wondered down, Nicola breaks into a happy smile. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. That wee Mark Phillips from the Guardian was very impressed. He’s going to interview you at yer constituency office on Thursday, after ye’ve helped snotty Jean with her housing benefits.”

Now she looks outright disbelieving. “ _Really_?”

“Yeah. Said something about wanting to profile the real Nicola Murray – the woman behind the Glummy Mummy image.”

“That’d make a nice change.”

Malcolm's getting a bit concerned about the direction in which this conversation is taking him. “Are you ready to go? Much as I’d love to stand around here for the rest of the evening contracting fucking verrucas, I’ve got work to do.”

Nicola nods, gathering up her things. “I’m going to go straight home. Josh isn’t very well and I want to check on him.”

Malcolm resists the urge to make a comment about her lack of commitment to the job or the weakness of her genetic line. “I’ll get Elvis to drop you off and then take me back to Number 10 in your car.”

She gives him that quizzical look again and he ushers her out of the door with a forceful hand to the small of the back before she can say something else. “Come on, I haven’t got all fuckin' evening you know.”

 ***

She’s quiet in the car, for once suppressing her fucking compulsive need to make small talk. Malcolm takes the opportunity to draft a long email to Siobhan at Transport describing in explicit detail what he will do to her if he ever finds out that she has checked into a hotel with her aide again. He's so absorbed by his task that he only glances up when the car comes to a stop outside Nicola’s house.

“Well, this is me,” says Nicola with a trace of that fucking annoying forced cheerfulness that she usually falls back on when meeting strangers. “Thanks for the lift.”

“It’s _your_ car,” Malcolm points out flatly.

“Right, yes.” She laughs nervously and nods, but doesn’t make a move to get out of the car.

“Was there anything else, Secretary of State?” Malcolm asks, rolling her title around in his mouth so it's clear that it is anything but respectful use of her title.

Nicola clears her throat. “Well err...yes, actually.”

Malcolm spreads his arms in the universally understood gesture for “ _Well get the fuck on with it then_.”

“I wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me?” He almost chokes on the words. It’s the last thing he had expected her to say. “It's about time, given that I save your political career on practically a daily basis. Is there something in particular you had in mind?”

Nicola’s face falls a little, some of the girlish prettiness slipping away to be replaced by the familiar lines of tension around her mouth and eyes. “Could you stop being a dick for five minutes? I’m trying to thank you for—well, for being nice this afternoon. For a while I felt like you really believed in me and…” she trails off, struggling for the right words.

Malcolm feels acutely awkward. The only context in which an MP has ever thanked him for his help is desperate relief after he’s killed some career- or marriage- ending scandal. He's not used to thanks that don't involve grovelling or sobbing.

“…it helped,” finished Nicola. “You believing in me today. For a while I actually believed in myself.”

Malcolm is momentarily speechless. Nicola has not only just thanked him very graciously for doing his job, but she's just lexposed her own crippling insecurity. Despite the fact that during their acquaintance he's never passed up an opportunity to pounce on any sign of weakness from her. And maybe he’s not had enough to eat today because he can’t bring himself to do it this time. Going for the open goal at her expense would just be too…heartless.

“Yeah well…you did alrigh’ today Nic’la." She gives a nervous little smile and God help him but he finds it almost...endearing. He makes ' _go away_ ' motions with his hands. "Now get out so I can get on with saving western democracy. Go an’ read wee Josh a bedtime story and have a glass of wine with fuckin' Mr Rugger Bugger.”

“Goodnight Malcolm.”

She slips out of the car, shutting the door softly behind her. Malcolm watches her into the house and then instructs Elvis to take him back to Number 10. The Chancellor is presenting National Insurance reforms to the TUC tomorrow and it has the potential to turn into a feeding frenzy if Malcolm doesn’t brief the fear of God into him.

As he jots down notes on how to spin tax rises to trade unionists, he finds his mind slipping back to Nicola. Her flushed, happy face when he'd admitted that she'd done an all right job earlier that day, exhilarated by exercise and her own unanticipated burst of competence. Beneath the hopeless minister is a surprisingly good, unaccountably fucking likeable human being. He puts down his pen and presses his fingers into his eyes, trying to exorcise these unhelpful thoughts from his brain. Fucking Nicola Murray.


End file.
